The Fishers of Light
by mattdarbs
Summary: When fishermen are being found under street-lights, with their arms raised and their blood drained, Sherlock and John know the game is on. However, when Molly is taken, it's no longer a game for Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The room was dull but warm. Tim's face hurt. He sat, his vision starting to come into focus. He examined his surroundings. Green wallpaper could be seen behind the shelving against the walls; it was rotten and peeling. The shelves were full of boxes. He turned his head, his vision now reaching its regular focus (which still wasn't perfect, as he'd woken without his glasses). His fishing rod was next to him. _Fishing,_ he remembered; he had been fishing. He tried to move his arms, but they were stuck. He looked down, and could see that they were tied to the arms of the chair.

Noises. There were noises on the other side of the door to his right. He tried to shout out, but some kind of tape was over his mouth. He turned to look at the door, hearing the footsteps getting closer. The door opened.

"Ah! Yes! I, uh... I see you've finally woken. The rag was meant to stay on your face. Clearly you're a, erm, restless sleeper." The man chuckled to himself. Tim looked down and spotted the rag next to him. "That's OK." The man chuckled again. "I was going to, erm, wake you up soon anyway. It's almost _time_." Tim tried to talk, wanting to ask the man what it was almost time for. The man walked over to the shelves and took hold of a large box. He put it on the floor, with the same care you would see from a mother placing her newborn in a cot. The man opened the box and looked up at Tim, smiling, as he removed its contents. Tim wasn't sure what he was looking at. It looked like a fish tank – the kind you would find in your daughter's bedroom ( _My daughter! I need to get back to my daughter!_ ) – but it wasn't filled with water. The fluid inside the tank was not clear. It was red. "This," the man started, with a smile on his face, "is somebody you, er, don't yet know. But don't worry, you will do soon. He was a fisher, just like, er, you. Soon you will ascend and be a fi-fisher of light, just as he now is." The man walked over to another shelf and took down a box. Tim suddenly realised who the man was. _But why is he doing this?_ The man opened the box and pulled out another fish tank, except this one was empty. With it still in his right hand, he then pulled out a thin piping and walked over to Tim. Tim started flailing in the chair, but his torso was also tied up. The chair was screwed to the floor, which was the only reason it was still upright. "Don't, er, worry Tim. You will soon be with your new friend here." The man said, looking back at the other fish tank. "Now, just relax." He put the empty fish tank down next to the chair and grabbed Tim's hand, turning it palm up. The man looked at the needle on the end of the piping. He then held the needle close to one of the veins on Tim's wrist, but Tim was moving his arm too much for the man to put it in. In frustration, the man threw the needle to the floor and picked up the rag. Tim tried to turn his face away, as the man held the rag against his nose. It was no use; he felt himself drift away.

 **...**

"All I'm saying is, next time, _you_ clean the sink." John added, before turning to the window of the taxi and gazing out at the London streets – the beautifully busy streets – as they were passing by, lit up in the darkness of the night-time.

"I don't understand all the fuss you're making, it was just a little blood." Sherlock responded. "I mean it's not like you haven't seen enough in your lifetime, is it?" John tried to restrain himself.

"Sherlock, firstly, it wasn't a _little_ bit of blood; it was a whole bloody _human's_ worth! Secondly, for all I know, the person could have had aids or chlamydia or _God_ knows what else." He turned his face away again.

"He didn't have aids – _or_ chlamydia." Sherlock replied. "... He had rabies." John's head spun back around. He stared at Sherlock.

"Rabies? Rabies?! _Well_... That's just bloody great Sherlock! Rabies!" He calmed himself before continuing. "If I start foaming at the mouth, promise to take me out back and shoot me."

"Did you not wash your hands afterwards?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes of _course_ I bloody did, Sherlock!"

"So what's the problem?"

"What's the prob – what's the problem?!" John composed himself. "The _problem_ , Sherlock, is that even after washing my hands, I'm... Look, I'm still going to be paranoid about it for the rest of the day." He checked his watch. "If it was something minor I could just put it out of my mind, but _rabies? Rabies?!_ I could have washed my hands twenty times and I'd _still_ be paranoid about it." Sherlock thought for a second.

"So, what your saying is that you're irrationally worried, and _I'm_ to blame." John tried to hold back another outburst. He let out a quick breath through his nose.

"Yes. Yes that's ex _act_ ly right, Sherlock. Exactly right."

They arrived at the scene. Sherlock got out as John paid the cabbie. Greg Lestrade was already waiting for them.

"You took your time." Greg said.

"So did you. I believe this is the _second_ body you've found like this." Sherlock responded, as John walked over.

"Hey." John said, being the first one to actually say hello.

"Hey." Lestrade responded, then turned back to Sherlock. "Yes, this is the second one. Who told –"

" – No-one." Sherlock cut him off. "When you called me, you sounded apprehensive, but – "

"Yeah, I'm always apprehensive when it comes to getting you involved." Greg added.

"Except this time you'd moved away from the crime scene."

"What do you mean?" John asked. Lestrade crossed his arms. He knew what was coming, but wanted to hear how Sherlock had figured it out. Sherlock turned to John.

"When Gabriel here – "

" _Greg."_ Lestrade corrected him. John smirked. "Wait... Gabriel? Right, now you're just doing it on _purpose._ " Sherlock grinned, then continued.

"When _Greg_ here called, everything – the hustle and bustle of the crime scene – was just background noise. He'd walked away, didn't want everyone knowing what he was doing. Whenever he usually calls from a scene, he doesn't go to such an effort for some peace and quiet, which _means_?" Sherlock looked at John, wanting his deduction.

"Which means... he was doing something he shouldn't be doing?" John hadn't wanted it to sound like a question.

"Exactly. That, added to the fact that when I arrived Sergeant Donovan rolled her eyes (in a way that suggested it was a bad thing we were here), I'd say you were trying to solve these ones on your own." Lestrade was just about to admit it, but pulled out at the last second.

"Ah, _but..._ " He started. "She's never liked you, so why couldn't she have just rolled her eyes because she never likes you being here?" He stood with a smile on his face, looking quite proud of himself.

" _Yes_ , but then she looked at _you_ with those angry eyes, not me _._ " Greg dropped his smile, wondering why he kept trying to win like this. "Add that to the fact she now has the crime scene investigators packing away their equipment, tells me she didn't know I was coming, which _means_ you hadn't told her." Lestrade turned to see Sergeant Donovan standing around as everybody else was moving their equipment. "Don't _ever_ try to solve one of these on your own, Greg, you're not _nearly_ smart enough." Sherlock added, while walking straight past him. John and Lestrade followed; they were both used to it.

"What the hell is _this_?" John asked as they walked to the corpse.

"Yeah, it's certainly an interesting one, isn't it?" Lestrade answered. "We found the first one in exactly the same state: both under lampposts; _both_ with not a drop of blood in 'em."

The man's body, pale yet peaceful, was knelt down beneath a lamppost. His arms were outstretched and raised, as if lifting praise to the light that shone down on him. Sherlock took a closer look. The arms were held up by a wire. There was a section of fishing rod, its ends tied to the man's elbows, keeping the arms outstretched. His head was tilted back, looking up to the sky.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" John asked, crouching down next to him. Sherlock moved his gaze around the body.

"His name's Tim Hyde." Lestrade started. "38 years old; accountant; wife told us he'd gone fishing and then never came back."

"How long ago was that?" John asked.

" _That_ was about a week ago." Lestrade answered. "Which is the same amount of time the first one had been missing for." Sherlock stood up. "Right then, what you got for me?" Lestrade asked.

"Arms are held up by fishing wire: tied onto one wrist, thrown up over the lamppost, then tied to the other wrist. Look at the fishing hook on the end of the line; it looks rusted, old, so probably not the victim's. The killer must have had an old one lying around, which suggests he or she is probably a fisherman too, or at least used to be. Now, look at the right wrist. There's a small puncture mark into the vein, meaning the killer inserted a needle and drained the blood, _but_ there was no struggle when it was put in (Only one hole; multiple holes would mean multiple tries.). This suggests he was drugged when it was done. Looking at his face, we can see sores all around his mouth and nose; that comes from exposure to chloroform, so yes, definitely drugged." Sherlock stood back. "No cuts or bruises on the rest of the body, suggests the killer wasn't violent, so probably not motivated by hate or anger. Hair has been combed _after_ the attack, suggests the killer cared about his victims."

"How do you know it was after the attack?" Lestrade asked.

"Have you ever seen a murdered body with hair this neat?" Sherlock answered. Lestrade felt a little stupid (It was a feeling he was used to.). Sherlock continued. "The killer takes care of his victims and then leaves them in this pose; that suggests somebody religious. Look at this, it screams religious imagery. Probably a Judeo-Christian religion, due to the symbolism: looking up to the light with open arms, in worship. Could possibly be narrowed down to Christian if fishermen are part of the symbolism. When did the first victim go missing?"

"While out fishing." Lestrade answered.

"'Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men.'" Sherlock quoted to himself.

"So we're looking for what? A priest?" Lestrade asked.

"Maybe," Sherlock answered, "but could be a sheep instead of a shepherd. Most likely somebody who recently left the church." Sherlock turned to Lestrade and John. "I don't imagine this person would have stayed in the church. Religious murderers often leave the church, thinking they know better than the rest of the community."

"So we're looking for the black sheep of the family?" John asked.

"Exactly." Sherlock grinned. The game was on.

 **...**

The three of them were walking down the street, leaving the coffee kiosk and heading back to the crime scene. Lestrade had wanted a coffee (it had been a long day for him) and John had grabbed one as well, more out of companionship than an actual desire for caffeine. Sherlock hadn't wanted any, but went regardless. As they talked, somebody was walking towards them. It was somebody they didn't know; somebody with a camera.

"Excuse me." The woman asked. She was in her twenties and had curly brown hair. Her friends were stood behind her. John knew what was coming. "Are you Sherlock Holmes? The famous detective?" Sherlock looked fed up, but John knew he loved every minute of it.

"Yes. Yes I am." The woman's face lit up, as did her friend's.

"Could I get a picture with you?" The woman asked. Sherlock smiled, trying to keep the muscles around his eyes relaxed so the smile wouldn't seem genuine.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock answered, and the woman let out an excited squeal. Lestrade tried to suppress a laugh. The woman's friend pulled out her phone, and the woman threw her arms around Sherlock.

"Smile." Her friend said. This time, Sherlock's smile wasn't genuine. He stood there with a fake smile on his face and his arms by his side. The women didn't seem to notice.

"Thank you." They all said, almost in unison. John was smirking as they left.

"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock asked. John couldn't help a huge grin breaking out.

"Why couldn't you just hug the girl, Sherl?" He laughed.

"Oh shut up." Sherlock snapped back.

"What's this about?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing." Sherlock snapped, then walked off. The two of them followed him, while John explained.

"He _hates_ hugging people. _Never_ does it."

"Really? Well that sounds about right." Lestrade said, before realising something. "Wait a minute," they all stopped. "he hugged me once."

" _Really?_ " John asked.

"I'm sure that's not the case." Sherlock responded, wanting the conversation to end.

"Wait, you absolutely did. When you came back from your time away, when you were pretending to be dead, we hugged."

"Did you?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock responded.

"No, we did. In that car park –"

"Wait wait wait wait _wait._ " John interrupted. "Who hugged who?" Lestrade thought for a second.

"Well, I hugged him, but –"

"And did he hug you back?" John asked. Lestrade's eyes widened.

"No. No he didn't." Lestrade looked to Sherlock, who starting walking again.

"Told you." John added, smiling to himself. They both followed Sherlock.

"You _heartless_ human being." Lestrade started.

"I _don't_ like hugs, OK? Never have." Sherlock snapped. "I just don't feel comfortable with hugs." He stopped and turned to them. "There's body warmth and... squishy bits – and it makes me _sick_." They carried on walking. "I want to see the first victim's body tomorrow morning."

"Don't change the subject." John said, before Lestrade could respond. "... It's just a little cuddle."

"Shut up John." Sherlock said, speeding up.

"You can practise on me if you –"

"John, shut up!" Sherlock hailed a passing cab and opened the door. "You can get the next one."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Molly had got into work an hour early (which, these days, was the time she usually started) and continued her work on Gerald. Gerald, by this point, was no more than a brain on a tray. He had been a motorcycle cop, but he'd had a seizure at 110MPH while chasing a stolen sports bike down a motorway. Molly was removing his left hippocampus when Sherlock and John entered.

"OK," she started, "so I cooked her liver for 30 minutes, and it smelled of lilac, not petunia. I got a friend of mine, Sarah, to smell it – she's a botanist... And then she was sick."

"Yes, the sight of people's innards does tend to turn the innards of others." Sherlock said, scanning the room before returning his gaze to her. "But that's not why I'm here. The fisherman that came in two weeks ago, Simon Urquhart, where is he?"

"Oh, he popped out. Said he wanted a fag." Molly joked. John giggled. Sherlock looked at Molly, knowing it was a joke but not caring for it. "Anyway." Molly continued. _Why do you always try so hard. Give up._ "Give me one second." She removed her latex gloves, before heading for the door.

"Has the body from last night come in?" John asked, as they walked through the corridors.

"Which body?" Molly asked.

"There was another fisherman killed. They found him last night, in the same state and everything." John answered.

"I'll have to ask Susan; she was on last night. Another fisherman?"

"Yes." John asked.

"Oh. That's scary actually." Molly said, as they walked into a room (The sign read "Corpse storage".).

"Why? You fish?" John asked, but Sherlock interjected before she could answer.

"Yes. Just started a month ago, judging by her hair, shoes and perfume." Molly sighed.

"Yes. Yes I have." She scanned the names on the freezers as she walked down the room.

" _Really?_ " John was surprised.

"Yes. Why?"

"Sorry, just never... saw you as the fishing type." Molly continued to look for the right freezer.

" _Here_ he is." She opened one of the doors and pulled the body out. It rested naked on its cold, metal bed. "68 years old; ex-fireman." Sherlock looked at its right wrist.

"Look, John. Another puncture mark, just like the one last night." John walked around to Sherlock's side and looked.

"Just one hole. No more, just like you said." John then turned to Molly. "So, he had his blood drained too."

"Yep." She answered. "There's still a _bit_ of blood in there, obviously, but he's pretty much bone dry." Sherlock looked up at Molly.

"Married?"

"Yes." Molly answered, walking over to a desk and typing his name into the computer. "A... Mrs Lindsey Urquhart." Sherlock turned to John.

"I think it's time we paid Mrs Urquhart a visit."

 **...**

The Urquhart's house, from the outside, was a perfectly lovely semi-detached home within which you could relax and forget all of the worries and troubles of the office you just escaped from. Inside... not so much.

"I'm sorry about all the stuff." Mrs Urquhart said, waddling her way to the kitchen as John and Sherlock sat down. The sofa could fit three people, but they sat right next to each other. Sherlock had gone to move the papers stacked on the other end, but John advised him otherwise. "We're both keen on keeping hold of things." Mrs Urquhart shouted.

"Mrs Urquhart, are sure you don't want me to do that?" John asked.

"It doesn't seem to have been too tough on her." Sherlock whispered to John. John shushed him.

"No, that's OK my dear. I need to keep going. If I don't I..." They heard sniffles from the kitchen.

"Sounds like you were wrong." John whispered, before walking into the kitchen (almost tripping over a box of books).

Mrs Urquhart was sat at a small table. There were cereal boxes stacked on top of it. John would have sat down on the chair across from her, but the boxes would have blocked his view.

"The radiator." Mrs Urquhart said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief that looked older than John. "Simon was going to fix it... Somewhen. He always took a while to get round to things – but he always did them eventually." She held the handkerchief to her mouth.

"Mrs Uruqhart, I am _truly_ sorry for what happened to your husband." Mrs Uruqhart whimpered. "But..." John grabbed the other chair and sat down next to her. "But we just need to ask you a few questions." Mrs Uruqhart's gaze moved to the doorway, and John turned his head. Sherlock was standing there.

"O-OK." Mrs Uruqhart stammered. Sherlock started before John could.

"When was the last time you saw your husband?"

"B-Before he left the house, to go fishing. I wa-was upstairs in our room, and he came in to g-get his coat."

"Was your husband a religious man? Attend a church or some other religious institution?"

"No. No, he didn't believe in anything like that. He was a fireman you know?" She said, turning to John.

"I know." John replied.

"He spent his life saving lives. I can't think of anyone who'd want to hurt him."

"Mrs Uruqhart, would you mind if we took a look around your room? Just to see if there's anything that might help us?" John asked. She sniffed.

"O-OK. Go up the stairs. It's the door right in front of you."

"One last thing, Mrs Uruqhart." Sherlock said. "Did your husband smoke?"

"N-No. Never. Hated the bloody things."

The hallway upstairs was surprisingly clear compared to the one downstairs. They entered the bedroom, and Sherlock moved his gaze around, taking in every detail. John stood behind him, waiting for him to move to whatever interested him the most. The room was almost tidy on one end (the end with the bed); at the other end, there were piles of newspapers and boxes and other discardable treasures. The only other clutter in the room was a small pile of letters and receipts on the bedside cabinet. Sherlock walked around the bed, sat down on it and picked up the pile. John walked over to the wardrobes, opening them and trying to analyse the contents. Sherlock only got through a few of the receipts before finding one that interested him. He held it up and read it again, this time more closely.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Receipt for fishing equipment: 'Maggots'. This wasn't a recent purchase – about a month ago – but if someone wants to kill off fishermen, the local fishing shop would be a good place to start.

 **...**

Sherlock, John and Lestrade walked along the pavement, avoiding the hordes of shoppers that bustled towards them. They checked each shop they passed, knowing The Burton Family Fishing Shop was on this street. The store didn't seem to have a website when John had searched for it, but Sherlock had seen it in passing and had it tucked away in his memory palace.

"And here it is." John said. The sign above the shop front was blue, like the rest of the shop, with white writing. There were rods and nets and bait in the window. In the corner of the window, by the door, was a dead lobster.

"Stinks a bit." Lestrade noted.

"I imagine it will be worse inside." John said. Sherlock walked in; the door rang as he entered.

"You were right." Lestrade said, as he and John entered. There were more fishing rods displayed on hangers, with boxes of them stacked underneath. John noted the prices, thinking he may come back around Molly's birthday. Sherlock walked up to the counter and rang the bell.

"One minute!" They heard. The door behind the counter opened and a man came out. "Sorry," he said, "just putting some things away. How can I help you gentlemen?" The man looked in his fifties, and had a white beard and glasses. If he'd been larger, a child may have mistaken him for Father Christmas.

"Are you Mr Burton?" Sherlock asked.

"Well that is indeed what people call me." He replied, then chuckled. Sherlock placed the receipt on the counter. Mr Burton looked down at it, back up at Sherlock, then picked it up and examined it.

"You sold some maggots to a Simon Uruqhart, a few months ago." Sherlock said.

"Yes," Mr Burton replied, "it appears I did."

"Mr Burton, how well do you know Mr Uruqhart?" Sherlock asked.

"He comes in every now and then for supplies. I consider him one of my regulars – lovely man. What exactly is this all about, may I ask?" Lestrade walked forward.

"Well, here's the thing –"

"Mr Uruqhart was murdered two weeks ago." Sherlock said, interrupting Lestrade.

"Oh."

"'Oh' indeed, Mr Burton." Sherlock continued. He pointed at the receipt. "Was that purchase made the last time he was in here, or did he come in again after that time?"

"Erm, yes. He came in just over two weeks ago – must have been close to the time he was murdered, then."

"Did he buy anything?" Sherlock asked.

"No. No, he didn't buy a thing."

"Do you know of anybody he spent time with? Another fisher who he'd befriended – or who'd befriended him?"

"No, not that I knew of. But I don't really go fishing any more these days. Is his wife OK?"

"Distraught." Sherlock replied, reaching into his inside coat pocket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to him. "If you do think of anything that may be even the _slightest_ bit useful, call me _immediately_."

"Oh. OK, sure." Sherlock turned and walked towards the door. Lestrade followed him.

"Thanks for your time." John said, deciding to be the polite one.

 **...**

Molly waited, her hands holding her rod. The breeze flowed around her, and the water flowed around the end of her line. It was quiet. This is what she liked about it – not catching fish or time spent with nature, but the peace: the unbroken peace she never had (that no-one has, when they spend their lives around Sherlock Holmes). The _great_ Sherlock Holmes. He _was_ great. Not in the 'oh, what a great mind' or 'gee, what brave actions' way. To her, he was a great soul, even if few people saw it.

The silence – that beautiful peace within which time can stop and wait on you, instead of the other way around – was broken by the smallest noise: the sound of grass crunching.

Molly turned her head. Behind her stood a man, his hands behind his back.

"Hello there. I – I just saw you as I was, er, walking by. Wanted to make sure you were, erm, OK. Young lady out here alone and all."

"I'm fine, thank you." Molly replied. She smiled, but it was insincere. She just wanted to be left alone, and was slightly insulted. He could see what she was doing, why wouldn't she be OK?

"Oh, OK then." The man said. "I was just, er, making sure. You have yourself a nice day now."

"You too." Molly turned back around. The float on the end of her line was bobbing down below the water: she'd caught something. It was then she felt a rag on her face. She struggled, she kicked and yelled and flailed, but couldn't stop herself from drifting away. She sank into unconsciousness.

 **...**

John was sat in his chair, reading the newspaper. Sherlock was sat in his, legs crossed and mind focused.

"We need to go to Tim Hyde's house, see if there's a connection. Why was _he_ chosen?"

"Chosen?" John asked, looking up at him.

"Yes. We know he was treated well, so it wasn't out of anger, which means he was chosen. Now, what was he chosen _for_? Well, that's the harder question to answer. Religious killers are always difficult when it comes to a motive. It's usually a logic no-one can understand. Most of the time _they_ don't even understand it."

"'Did he _smoke_?'" John paraphrased.

"What?"

"You asked Mrs Uruqhart if her husband smoked; why?"

"Oh, that. Not important, just something I was wondering. What _is_ important, however, is finding out how the killer knew these men."

"What if he didn't? What if he's choosing them at random?" John asked. Sherlock sat back and thought.

"He or she."

"What?"

"We can't rule out a female killer." Sherlock answered.

"So... she drugs them, knocking them unconscious, then drags their bodies to her car and drives away. Before then dragging them to a lamppost and putting them into position. Must have been a very strong woman." They both sat in silence. John was thinking. Sherlock was thinking harder. John sat forward. "What if there were two of them? That would work."

"Or it could just be one man. My point is, John, we know nothing."

"OK... And you don't like that?"

"Of _course_ I don't."

"Fair enough... Do you want a hug?" Sherlock got up and stormed out of the room. "It'll make you feel better!" John shouted down the hall.

"Shut up, John!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

As Sherlock looked up and down the street, John pressed the doorbell. The Bennett house was quite large (it was obvious Mr Bennett had done well for himself).

"Who's there?" A voice asked from behind the door. It sounded irritated, but tired: the anger of someone who no longer felt like living.

"Is this Mrs Bennett?" John asked. There was silence.

"Why are you asking?" The voice replied. John turned to Sherlock.

"Mrs Bennett, we're here about your husband." Sherlock said.

"My Tim is dead." The voice replied. "Go away."

"Mrs Bennett, we just need to ask you a few questions." Sherlock added. They heard nothing.

"We're trying to catch your husband's killer, Mrs Bennett." John tried. "He's already killed somebody else." They heard the door unlock. They were expecting to be greeted by Mrs Bennett, but instead the door was only opened a crack. John pushed it open to see the back of Mrs Bennett as she walked down the hallway. Sherlock and John looked at each other, then walked in, John closing the door behind them.

They walked through the door at the end of the hallway, into the kitchen. To their left was a dining area, with a table and chairs. In front of them was a glass sliding door that led to a conservatory. They could see Mrs Bennett sitting on one of the wicker chairs in the conservatory. The door was already open, so they walked in. Her face was stern, but her cheeks were wet with tears. She was staring out of the window. She sniffed, then spoke.

"I've already answered the police's questions." She said, still staring out of the window.

"We know," John said, "but there's been another murder, and we're trying to find any links we can." She sniffed again.

"Mrs Bennett, do you know where your husband bought his fishing supplies?" Sherlock asked.

"Burton Fish Shop." She replied. "Something like that – would that be all?" She turned her gaze to him, and then to John.

"Did your husband ever mention knowing a Mr Simon Uruqhart?" Sherlock asked.

"No." Mrs Bennett replied. Her face was still stern, but John recognised what was behind it. He'd seen that face a few times in his life, on people he knew in passing.

"OK." John said. "Thank you for your time."

They walked out of the front door. Just as John was about to close it behind them, they heard a loud sobbing move through the house. John was just about to go back inside, when Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"Don't." Sherlock said. John closed the door, and they walked down the driveway. It was then that Sherlock's phone started ringing.

"Hello."

" _Sherlock, get down here NOW!"_

"Lestrade? What's wrong?"

" _He's got Molly, Sherlock!"_

 **...**

Molly opened her eyes and moved her head from side to side. Her half-conscious self tried to speak, but there was something over her mouth. Her vision was blurry. She wasn't sure where she was. She couldn't see anything in much detail, but she knew there was a figure standing in front of her.

"There now," the figure said, "good to, er, to have you, erm, waking up. Yes, very good. Don't, er, worry my dear. No no no, don't you be worrying. Soon you will be a fisher of light. Erm, yes. Just like the others. You'll see." Her vision started to come into focus, and her mind regained its strength. The man was pacing back and forth. "I've, er, been studying hard, my dear. I learned it all. I learned the true way. I am a fisher of... of men, but those men must see the light. And to see it they must, er, go looking – fishing for it as it were. Yes. But first they must die to the world, in order to live in the light, yes. And... and as the light bled, so must they." He knelt down in front of her. "As will you, my dear. As will you... but not just yet. I need you, to keep away the, erm, little foxes. The little foxes that come to steal the fruits of my labour."

 **...**

Sherlock burst into Lestrade's office. John followed, much more composed.

"When, where, how: I want to know everything we know." Sherlock said, the instant he laid eyes on Lestrade.

"We don't know where, but she was taken at some point between leaving work and this morning." Lestrade answered. "She told her colleague she was going fishing after work, so that's probably when it happened. As for 'how', we have no reason to suspect it's any different to the others: chloroform."

"How do we know she was taken?" John asked. Lestrade picked up a piece of paper and held it out to them. Sherlock snatched it from his hand and read it.

"That note arrived today. Nobody saw the person bring it in, but it was left on the reception desk. We checked the CCTV, but he was wearing a hood."

"So it's a he?" John asked.

"By the look of him, yes, most likely." Lestrade answered. Sherlock looked at the paper, turning it over. _For the attention of Sherlock Holmes, and his friends._ He handed the paper to John, who read it aloud.

 _I have your friend Molly (I read her ID). She will be safe, but leave us alone. The fishers of light must be caught. Stop looking for me! – Fisher of men._

"At least we know she's safe." John said, looking up from the paper. "For now, at least."

"We may not have much time." Sherlock said, pacing back and forth.

"Well," John started, "as long as he doesn't know we're looking for –"

"We don't have time John!" Sherlock shouted, before storming over to him. "He said she'd be safe, but what is safe to him, John? Heaven is safe to him! Maybe he wants to send her there!"

"Yes, all right. All right." John replied. "What's 'fishers of light' mean?'

"No idea." Sherlock replied. "Mentally ill _and_ religious, could mean anything." Sherlock replied.

"So what have you got on this guy then? Anything?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock paced, his face contorted in thought.

"So far, nothing." John replied, seeing Sherlock wasn't going to answer. Lestrade sat back in his chair.

"So what do we do?" He asked.

"Any ideas, Sherlock?" John asked.

"St Matthew's?" He answered.

"Where?" John asked, sure a St Matthew's had never been mentioned in their investigation.

"St Matthew's church." Sherlock explained. "It's the parish closest to the houses of both victims. He may be there."

"I thought you said the killer had probably left the church. Not getting along and thinking they know better and –"

"Or he may not. I don't know, but we _have_ to try John!"

" _Yes,_ OK, but we can't waste time on this, Sherlock; he has _Molly._ "

"Yes, John, I know he's got Molly!"

"Right," John replied, "so why do you want to go somewhere without a shred of evidence that that is where she is? Huh? What good would that do?" Sherlock went silent. "Now, the best lead we have is the Burton Fishing Store. Why don't we go back there and see what else we can find?" Sherlock remained silent for a few seconds, then spoke.

"You go there if you want John, but I'm going to St Matthew's. Lestrade, with me, now." Lestrade exhaled.

"Yeah, all right." He said, getting up from his desk.

"Right then." John said, to no-one.

 **...**

Sherlock sat in the back seat of Lestrade's car. Lestrade had told him he could get in the front, but he'd chosen the back.

"So, what makes you so sure she's at this St Matthew's then?" Lestrde asked, looking at him in the mirror. Sherlock didn't answer. "I mean, it just seems like quite a stretched link to me. Usually your theories are water tight."

"I don't know if he's there or not." Sherlock replied.

" _Right_ ," Lestrade started, "so why are we going there?"

"Because he may be. We might as well try."

"So, in other words, we're going to this place on a slight possibility." Lestrade looked at him again. He looked scared. "Or, just _maybe_ , this is because your petrified." Sherlock didn't respond. "He's got Molly, and you don't know how to handle that. You're scared, because you have no idea where she is or what's happening to her... You know what Sherlock, I honestly don't blame you. I'm terrified as well."

As John was in a taxi, stuck in traffic on the way to The Burton Family Fishing Shop, Lestrade and Sherlock got out of the car and walked up to the large wooden doors of St Matthew's Church. Sherlock walked straight in, his eyes not looking anywhere except forward. Lestrade followed, their footsteps echoing around the large room.

"Right," Lestrade started, keeping his voice down, "since we're probably wasting our time, could you do me a massive favour and get this done quickly." Sherlock didn't respond, walking up the aisle. He stepped up to the altar and looked around.

"Ding Dong! Anyone home?!"

"Sherlock, keep your voice down!" Lestrade hissed, standing down by the front row. "Have some respect." Sherlock turned to him, then turned around again. Just as he was about to shout again, a door to their right opened, and a man walked out.

"He-hello?" He asked. "Can I, er, help you gentlemen?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered, walking over to him faster than the man had expected. The man stepped back as Sherlock got a bit too close for comfort.

"Sherlock, calm down, _Now._ " Lestrade said, trying to take back control of the situation. He walked over to them. "Look, Reverend..."

"Lucas. Reverend Lucas."

" _Lucas_. I'm a police officer. We're here on a murder investigation."

"Oh. Erm, OK, how can I be of, er, service?" As Reverend Lucas asked this, Sherlock stormed straight past him, through the door. Reverend Lucas turned to watch him go, then turned back to Lestrade, confused.

"Well, we were just hoping you would let us have a look around." Lestrade explained. Reverend Lucas looked back to the door.

"Well, erm, it seems you're already doing that... But yes, of course."

"Thanks. Sorry about him." Lestrade went through the door. Reverend Lucas stood and looked around the room, as if he thought there would be somebody else there to explain what was going on. He then turned and followed Lestrade.

Lestrade walked down the corridor, into a small office. It was nothing fancy, except for the old, leather bound books on the shelves. Sherlock was making his way around the room, analysing everything. Lestrade didn't need to be so thorough to see there was nothing there.

"Sherlock, what are you looking for?"

"I don't know, anything. Anything that could tell us where she is." He replied. Reverend Lucas turned to Lestrade.

"What is he, er, looking for exactly?" He asked. Sherlock marched over to him.

"Is she here?" Sherlock asked, getting right in his face.

"Sherlock, calm down." Lestrade interjected. Sherlock ignored him.

"If she's here, me and you are going to have a _serious_ –"

"Sherlock! Enough! Now!" Lestrade shouted. "Get out, now." Sherlock didn't move. "Out! Now!" Sherlock stood for a few seconds, not moving, before turning and storming down the corridor. He walked back into the church hall, and started to look around.

"Sorry about him." Lestrade said. "He's just a bit upset. Somebody we know has been taken and... to be honest, I don't think I've ever seen him like this." Reverend Lucas' look of terror subsided.

"Don't worry." He said. "God's work is often deep and transcendent, but it is there. I hope you find your friend."

"LESTRADE!" They heard Sherlock's voice echo around the church and down the corridor.

"What!?" Lestrade shouted, walking back into the hall. Sherlock was standing about halfway down, staring at something on the wall.

"You need to come see this!" He replied. Lestrade walked over. Reverend Lucas followed him, getting used to having no idea what was going on.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock was staring at a wooden board, attached to the wall. It was made from mahogany, and the patterns in the corners, and around the edges, were perfect. There were three columns of names engraved onto the board, but enough space for many more.

"Ah, yes. Um, that's the names of, erm, all the past reverends of this church." Reverend Lucas explained.

"Look at the last name to be added." Sherlock said, pointing to it. Lestrade read it.

"Reverend Alexander Burton. 2012 - 2013" Lestrade read. "Could be a co-incidence."

"Doubtful." Sherlock responded, then turned to Reverend Lucas. "Reverend Burton. What do you know about him?"

"Well, er, I worked with him here. At first he was a lovely chap, but then he just went..."

"Just went what, Reverend?" Sherlock asked, needing anything other than pauses for thought at this point.

"A bit... strange. He started going on about strange things, and a lot of our members were confused by his sermons. Why, the amount of questions I got asking me to explain what was said – I couldn't answer them myself. When I asked him about it, he wouldn't make much sense."

"What kind of things would he say?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, erm, he had a lot of strange phrases. Like 'undead spirits', 'fruits of our blood'... and 'fishers of light'."

"John's there." Sherlock said, and ran towards the door.

"Thank you, Reverend!" Lestrade shouted, as he was running after Sherlock.

 **...**

Molly was alone. The ropes around her arms were still firmly in place, and the tape over her mouth was still holding back her voice. She looked around, trying to find some way to get out of this. Her mind was now as sharp as it usually was, and her body had regained its strength. She didn't know what she was looking for – escaping didn't exactly seem possible – but she blasted her mind over every possibility she could think of; any idea that may have even the slightest chance of working.

Beyond the blue door on her right, there was a voice. _No,_ she realised, _two voices._ One of them sounded like John.

 **...**

"Hello again Mr..."

" _Doctor_ John Watson." John replied.

"Ah, sorry. Doctor Watson. What can I do for you today my man?" Mr Burton asked.

"Just a few more questions, Mr Burton."

"Erm, OK, fire away."

"Did Mr Urquhart know a Tim Bennett? We know Mr Bennett used your store."

"Yes, I knew Mr Bennett quite well. Well now, let me see... I don't think they were ever in here at the same time. Outside of here, they may have known each other, but I'm afraid I really can't say I ever saw them in here together." John heard a noise and looked at the door behind Mr Burton. It had come from the other side of that door, but Mr Burton didn't turn to look.

"Erm, was there, er, anything else?" Mr Burton asked, reaching below the counter and moving some things around.

"What was that noise?" John asked.

"Oh, erm, I don't know. Prob-probably something falling over. Erm, was there anything else?" He kept looking at the items under the counter, moving them. He wouldn't look John in the eye. There was another noise, something hitting the floor, but this time it happened twice. _I didn't tie up her feet. Idiot!_

"Mr Burton, why are you so nervous?" John asked.

"I'm, erm, n-not." Mr Burton snarled back.

"Your erming and stuttering." John pointed out. Mr Burton stood up and looked him in the eyes. John looked down and saw the gun in his hand.

"Hands o-on your, er, head."

 **...**

"Come on!"Lestrade shouted. Sherlock rapidly switched between looking out the windows, looking at Lestrade, and rubbing his chin. He was struggling to keep himself in his usual, focussed mindset now they were stuck in this traffic. "It's always bad here at this time." Lestrade added, just for the sake of saying something. "Right, that's it, I'm calling it in –"

"NO!" Sherlock snapped.

"Right, why the hell do you keep telling me not to?!"

"Because if he realises they're there, even for a moment, he'll kill her! We need to go in quietly, ourselves." Lestrade exhaled.

"Sherlock, our boys can go in quietly if they need to." He said, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

"No!" Sherlock snapped again.

"And why the hell not?!"

"Because I don't trust them!" Sherlock roared.

"Oh, that's just great that is. You're going to risk Molly's life because you don't trust anybody but yourself? Huh? Really?"

"... I trust you." Sherlock responded. "I trust you, and I trust John, but he's not answering his phone." Lestrade put his phone in his lap. "We need to go in ourselves."

"Sherlock – Hey where're you going?!" Sherlock had thrown the door open and jumped out of the car. Lestrade looked out to see him chasing a moped that had been filtering past. Lestrade opened his door and stepped out of the car.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Listen," Sherlock was saying to the rider, "you need to give me a lift, right now."

"Mate, even if I wanted to give you a lift, I don't 'ave another 'elmet."

"It's not legal without a helmet, Sherlock." Lestrade pointed out.

"Get off the bike." Sherlock ordered, not paying attention to Lestrade.

"Now, 'old on mate –" The rider started, getting nervous.

"Sherlock! Stop!" Lestrade shouted. It was no use. Sherlock pushed the rider off and grabbed the handlebars. He jumped on and rode away, passing between cars. _So much for going in together_ Lestrade thought to himself. He looked at the rider, who was picking himself up off the floor. "Get in mate." He said, hoping he could smooth everything over.

 **...**

"Kneel!" Mr Burton shouted, pointing the gun towards the floor in front of Molly.

"Yes, all right, all right." John, his hands in the air, did what he was told. Mr Burton, pointing the gun back at John, moved sideways towards the other end of the room and felt around the shelves with his other hand. John watched, his arms now getting tired. Mr Burton put his arm around a box. As he pulled it off the shelf, he almost dropped it, so he quickly put it down. He wouldn't take his eyes off John. He reached into the box and pulled out an empty glass tank. He walked over to John and placed it in front of him.

"What's this – "

"Shut up!" Mr Burton shouted, moving backwards, his hand reaching down and feeling around for the box. As he found it again, he reached in and pulled out the piping, then threw it to John. "Pick it up." John started to move his hands down. "Slowly!" Mr Burton shouted.

" _Yes._ OK." John said, as he slowly moved his hands down to the piping and picked it up.

"Now, erm, put the normal end in the tank." John did what he was told. "Now tu-turn around – stay on your knees!" John turned around, leaving the rest of the piping on the floor. He looked up at Molly. She was looking at him. They were both scared, and they both knew it. "Now. Er... yes! Now, turn her, er, hand over so i-it's pa-palm up." John took hold of Molly's hand.

"I am _so_ sorry." He whispered.

"Shut up!" Mr Burton yelled. "Now, turn it over." John did. "Take the needle end." John looked down at it, but wouldn't pick it up. "Now!" John still didn't. "Pi-pick it up, or I-I'll kill you _both_!" John looked up at Molly. There were tears in her eyes. He squeezed his eyes together, as tears started to well up in his. He picked it up.

"Now, erm. Now he-here's how this is, er, going to happen. If y-you put that in her ve-vein, you'll live, and she, er, will become a fisher of light." As scared as Mr Burton was, he still sounded happy when he said those three words. "If you don't, erm, you'll both be _burning_ in hell to-tonight." John started to shake his head.

"Nope." He said. "No way."

"D-do it!" Mr Burton shouted.

"No."

"Now!" John wiped the tears from his eyes with his other hand, then stood to his feet. "Stay down! St-stay down!" John turned to look at him. He was _not_ going to do this. "I'll shoot y-you, _then her_!" John smirked, and Mr Burton had no idea why. "Wh-what are you smirking at?!"

Mr Burton saw something pass his eyes, but it was so thin – and so fast – that he nearly missed it. He then felt something tighten around his neck, while two arms pressed into his back. John ran at him and grabbed the gun in his hand. He pushed Mr Burton's arm so the gun was aimed away from them, and it went off. John wrenched it out of his hand and slid it across the floor. Sherlock released the fishing line he'd been strangling Mr Burton with. He ran over to Molly. John restrained Mr Burton and, while he was pinning him down, Sherlock moved around the room, trying to find some kind of blade. He found a knife, then threw himself down, on his knees, in front of Molly and ripped the tape from her mouth, before cutting through the ropes around her arms and torso.

Sherlock tried to help Molly stand up. Her legs felt weak, so he placed his hands under her elbows and lifted her up. She leant herself against him as he let go, and wrapped her arm around his back. She cried, as anyone would having gone through the horror she had just endured. He placed his arms around her and held her there. He could feel the warmth of her against his chest. She was safe.

He held her there, and could now finally feel calm; at peace; right.

 **Epilogue**

What's up my rizzle-dizzle-wizzle-grizzles (If anybody knows what that actually means, let me know, as I've got no idea.). Usually my epilogues are serious, but I'm not yet feeling the seriousness vibey-wibeys, so we'll put all that stuff on hold fo' a mo'. This was my first time writing a fan-fic, and I've really enjoyed it. I've been a big fan of Sherlock for a long time (most of that "long time" was spent waiting for the next season :( ), and crime writing is something I've been wanting to do for a while.

If you've enjoyed this (Oh, bless my testicles, here it comes.) then check out my poetry on Youtube (my account's named _darbspoetry_ ). ALSO! I've just released a novel, about bullying and mental health, and it's available on Amazon. It's a horror/thriller called _A Surge of Blood_ (No, it's not about periods, as my friend recently asked.) _,_ and may just be the weirdest thing you've ever read (I'm not even joking, there is a seriously high possibility of that.). There's also a lot of personal emotion in there, and it's well worth a read.

Anyway, I feel the serious vibes fighting for the floor. It's about time I let them take over. OK, here it goes...

Penis!

… No, let's try that again, shall we? Aaaaaand... _Serious._

 **The Serious One**

You cannot be a _Fisher of Light._ Beliefs; dreams; desires – these are not pushed on to people. Sure, people may share with you, encourage you forward or inspire you onwards, but these things can't be forced onto you. Doctrines, expectations and the status-quo, however, can be.

There are many faithless-religious; questioning conservatives; lax liberals; lazy libertarians; wary warriors; unsure soldiers (In other words, people only along for the ride because it's the same train everybody else is taking.).

You cannot, no matter how right you are, force your views onto others. This isn't about moral objection, it's scientific scepticism. You can shut them up, but you cannot stop them thinking and feeling the way they think and feel. You can silence them but, as soon as an opportunity arises, they will free themselves from your grasp and shout out again. Telling people to stop saying things will not stop them thinking them. Nor will it stop them passing the hate on through the generations. If we want to change these people, we must first listen to them – truly listen. Then we must speak to the head with reason and to the heart with love.

Share your views; hear what others have to say; love each other regardless of differences in belief. Tell people what you see – by all means, be a fisher of men. However, always remember that the _Fishers of Light_ often spend their lives living in the darkness.

Peace and love.

– Matthew 'Darbs' Derbyshire.


End file.
